


one of those mornings

by wiski



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Ridiculous, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2013-07-16
Packaged: 2017-12-20 09:31:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/885686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wiski/pseuds/wiski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek is a morning person. Stiles tries to convince him otherwise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	one of those mornings

**Author's Note:**

> So. Much. Fluff. No redeeming qualities whatsoever aside from the gross amount of fluffy fluff.
> 
> Set in a perfect future where nobody dies and everything is awesome and our boys are happy and live together. (And, I dunno, maybe they [have random make-out sessions in Derek's kitchen during pack meeting coffee breaks or something](http://archiveofourown.org/works/676701).)
> 
> Unbetaed, please point out any errors so I can fix them!

Derek wakes up like clockwork at six o’clock on Saturday morning, just like any other day.

Everything is calm and still this early in the day, the only audible sounds the chirping of birds and the fluttering of their wings, and the rumbling of the occasional car every once in a while. It is still mostly dark out, and Derek keeps his eyes shut for few seconds longer and basks a little, in the comfort and ease that has, amazingly, become a constant in his life now, in having the luxury to wait for all his faculties to gradually come back to full capacity instead of the constant vigilance he had become accustomed to over the years, in the familiar warmth of another body pressed close to him still slack in deep slumber.

He breathes in once, deeply, draws in the clean smell of contentment and happiness and _pack_ , and, most distinctly, the heady and reassuring mixture of his own scent intimately intertwined with that of _another_ , and then opens his eyes as he breathes out.

He blinks the sleep out of his eyes, the shard of light that slipped in through the crack in the curtains to reach the ceiling slowly coming into focus. Turning his head to the left, he is greeted with the sight of Stiles’s face half smushed into his pillow, having migrated there from Stiles’s own pillow at some point during the night. His long sooty eyelashes cast shadows on ruddy cheeks, his hair is in an impossible mess, nose a mere inch from Derek’s own, features utterly lax in sleep. His mouth is open, just slightly, and huffing warm, humid, and slightly stale-smelling gusts of air right into Derek’s face. There is a trace of drool at one corner, which is disgusting and _not at all_ adorable or god forbid, _enticing_ , _god_ there is something wrong with him because it’s both adorable and enticing and he doesn’t even recoil from the onslaught of foul morning breath on his delicate senses. He is a hopeless case.

Derek gives his head a mental shake to rid himself of the early morning sentimentality, and hovers over Stiles to childishly blow out a healthy helping of his own brand of rank breath in his face. Stiles’s nose wrinkles a little, and the fingers of the hand he has loosely clasped over Derek's hipbone under the sheets twitch once, but there are no further reactions beyond that. Derek smothers a probably slightly besotted grin and reaches over to press a soft kiss to Stiles’s forehead where there is a tiny mole above his eyebrow, then extracts himself from the tangle of limbs in which he is entrapped as gently as he can manage. Stiles snuffles a little, pressing his nose deeper into the pillow, and flops his arm weakly over the warm spot on the mattress Derek just vacated, but doesn’t wake.

Derek carefully swings himself out of bed and then, after tucking the covers back over Stiles, slips into the bathroom to relieve himself and brush his teeth, get a drink of water, freshen up a little. Once he completes his morning ritual, he returns to the bedroom and tiptoes to the bay windows that open to the balcony to crack it open and partially draw the heavy drapes, letting in the crisp morning air.

He then proceeds to not-at-all creepily admire the flattering way the shifting shadow and light play across Stiles’s profile, making him itch to trace those same patterns on those cheekbones and lips.

He scoffs at his own ridiculousness after a minute or two spent cataloging every little well-loved detail on Stiles’s sleeping face, and turns to face the morning sun, its rays still mild at this hour.

Derek is stretching luxuriantly, enjoying the serenity of the moment and the coolness of the morning breeze on his naked skin when Stiles stirs on the bed, and he catches one bleary whiskey-golden eye peeking out at him from the nest of pillows and sheets. He chuckles to himself and goes back to his stretching, and pushes the curtains a little further apart so that the room is bathed in the soft light of early morning.

“Mmmnnngngh. _Der’k_. ’S… nnoooo,” Stiles mumbles mostly into the pillow. When Derek turns back to look at him, he has almost his entire face pressed into the pillow, eyes firmly shut against the light. “Sleepy. _Sleeeeeeep_. _Whyyyy_. Bad Der,” he grumbles petulantly, voice rough with sleep and tinged with a hint of a whine which he would vehemently deny were he more awake and in possession of his wits. But he's still mostly asleep, and he is making these sounds at the back of his throat, almost definitely whining now.

After a while he must realize that Derek does not plan to respond. Derek idly watches the play of tendons and muscles in his neck and the sliver of pale shoulders peeking out from under the covers as he squirms around, finally lolling his head a fraction so that one eye is not smothered into the pillowcase, then slits it open to squint at Derek. “Come back to bed,” Stiles croaks out when Derek raises an eyebrow at him, words a bit clearer than his previous endeavors. “Pretty, pretty _please_?” He drags one hand laboriously out from under the sheets to make grabby hands, but gives up after a bit of feeble flailing.

His eyes soon slip shut again, and he wriggles his hips in what he probably means to be a sexy way but is mostly just endearingly hilarious. He deigns to open that one eye again to shoot Derek a glare as best he can manage when Derek snorts at his efforts.

“You are _mean_ ,” Stiles whines, then shoves his face into Derek’s pillow and blows a gross, wet-sounding raspberry into it. Afterwards he just slumps and keeps his whole face buried in the downy pillow, muffling the stream of disgruntled noises he’s been making, seemingly too worn out to move again.

“Careful, wouldn't want to accidentally suffocate yourself.” Derek doesn’t even try to disguise his amusement.

Stiles grumbles something indecipherable into the pillow, then twists his head just enough for his voice to be not entirely muffled and says again, sullenly, “I don’t like you,” which is coupled with an expertly executed lip-wobble.

“Sure you don’t,” Derek agrees cheerfully, then saunters over to the bed to poke at a splotchy pink cheek, snatching his finger back with a snigger when Stiles make to bite at it. “And _you_ call _me_ a monster.” Derek, mature adult that he is, is cackling in smug satisfaction, and Stiles, who likes to boast of his maturity beyond his age, makes a rude noise, sticks his tongue out, and flips him off, all without opening his eyes once.

Stiles suddenly screws up his face and bats a hand at the wet patch on the pillow where his face just landed. “Ewww, _smells_ ,” he whines and points an accusing finger at Derek but was sadly way off target because he refuses to open his eyes. “Your fault,” he says reproachfully, and tries but fails to find a dry spot to continue his dozing.

“That was all you, Stiles,” Derek rolls his eyes and bends to tug at the pillow, but Stiles puts up a valiant fight, refusing to relinquish it until Derek shoves Stiles’s own pillow in his face, which has him latching on straight away and abandoning the drool-soaked one without fuss. Derek shakes his head disparagingly despite knowing full well that Stiles definitely has his face buried in his precious pillow and is thus not paying the slightest bit of attention to him, and goes to strip off the soiled pillowcase to dump into his laundry basket.

Stiles’s eyes snap open as soon as he feels the dip in the mattress as Derek comes back and settles down on the bed, after getting rid of the pillow and closing the set of sheer curtains to dim the room somewhat. “Yay,” he cheers and immediately starts flailing all his limbs not tangled in the sheets trying to drag Derek under the covers with him, fingers scrabbling to find purchase against bare skin and all but using his teeth to help drag Derek down. Derek pretends to struggle, just for the hell of it, though Stiles is insistent and surprisingly strong, even only half-concious.

By the time they’re done giggling and jabbing each other with elbows and Derek is settled comfortably against the headboard, Stiles’s movements have already slowed down to their previous sluggishness. He makes a half-hearted attempt to crawl over and plaster himself all over Derek’s front, but only gets as far as flinging an arm over Derek's chest so that his hand is resting against his breastbone before he's settling down and making pathetic whimpering sounds.

“Cuddle,” he demands, voice slurring and pout resolutely in place, eyes firmly shut and probably more than halfway back to the land of dreams already. His hand has relaxed and his long nimble fingers are spread over Derek’s chest, right over his heart.

Derek obliges and drapes Stiles’s pliant and sleep-warm body against his own, tucking his chin on top of Stiles’s mop of unruly hair and kneading soothing circles into his scalp and neck with one hand, tracing lazy patterns on the arm flung across his middle with his other.

Stiles, in turn, is all but purring like an oversized cat, gently butting the top of his head into the underside of Derek’s jaw, languidly rubbing the beginning of his morning wood against Derek’s hip but without any real intent, just like how Derek’s hand sometimes wanders south to give Stiles’s ass a friendly squeeze or two; Derek can tell that Stiles is about ten seconds from drifting off.

Stiles surprises him by perking up again and mumbling half into his shoulder, “We should totally have awesome mutual orgasms later,” the most coherent he’s been yet this morning, then punctuates that with a delicate nibble to a clavicle before settling his head back down and nuzzling against Derek’s deltoid.

Derek huffs out an amused laugh and runs his fingers through the soft hairs at his nape. “Sure, whatever you want, Stiles,” he says softly, and presses a kiss to the corner of Stiles’s lips, then moves in to kiss him properly on the mouth, morning breath be damned.

Stiles returns the kiss sloppily. “Mm. Yes.” Another open-mouthed kiss. “Good.” A close-mouthed peck. “Sexytimes. I have _awesome_ ideas.” He grins dopily.

“You do.” Derek magnanimously doesn’t tack on the “sometimes” at the end.

“Mmmm, yup. Y’re my favorite, y’know that?” Stiles hums happily and absentmindedly pets his left pec. His words are steadily becoming more and more jumbled.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Y’re supposed to say it back,” Stiles complains, prodding him in the shin with a toe, then yawns hugely until his jaw cracks.

“I don’t recall seeing this rule written down anywhere,” Derek shoots back, though admittedly that was not his best comeback.

Stiles’s lip-wobble threatens to make a return, even though his breathing is already starting to even out.

Derek relents.

“I love you,” he breathes with a helpless smile on his face, right into Stiles’s ear, which slowly turns a delectable shade of pink when he pulls back. “Happy now?”

Stiles hums and mumbles something into the pillowcase, the flush slowly spreading over his face and down his neck. He is fast asleep a minute later, but the corner of his lips is unmistakably curved upwards.

Soon after that, Derek scoots a little down the bed and lays his head down on Stiles’s pillow and burrows into the sheets that Stiles helped him pick out, surrounded by peace and contentment and Stiles’s scent and warmth, and is lulled into sleep by the steady breathing next to his ear and the thudding heartbeat under his palm.

 

 

(If you’re worrying about how Stiles didn’t say those three little words back then don’t fret, because he totally presses them, thousands of times along with as many butterfly kisses, over every inch of Derek’s skin when they finally have their hi-good-morning-I’m-so-glad-to-wake-up-to-your-stupid-face sex, which is followed by some nice shower sex and a round of particularly athletic kitchen counter sex, and then lazy make-outs on the couch while Saturday morning cartoons play in the background. There’s a limit to the number of times they can get it up in a single morning, and they are neither of them teenagers anymore; plus make-outs are totally awesome, _shut up_.)

**Author's Note:**

> I think I rotted out all my teeth during the two days I spent writing this from the sheer amount of disgusting couple-y nonsense. Fueled by my conviction that fluff makes everything bad in life better. Possibly also my unwillingness to get up early for work in the morning, can you tell.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
